Purpose
by WildWeather
Summary: Set after S2 finale. Clarke can't stand to look at the others anymore, she has lost purpose and herself after the events at Mount Weather. She wanders. Saved from death, she belongs to the Ice Nation. Once again, a purpose has found her. [I don't own the 100 or anything in it]
1. 1: Fallen

Chapter 1: Fallen From Grace

With deep, gasping breaths, Clarke slumped exhaustedly against the rough bark of gnarled roots that twisted up from the damp, leaf-covered ground. Towering pines surrounded her, closely knit in such a way that they were both in chaos, and ordered like rigid sentries. Her hair hung damp around her shoulders, clinging to her neck and dirt had accumulated so that her natural blonde was barely visible. It was coming close to twelve days since she had left camp and her insufficient skill set for survival in the harsh wilderness of the ground was growing more apparent by the minute. She had run out of tears to shed soon after leaving Camp Jaha, having decided the murky waters that sliced through the warm green of the trees was assuredly unsafe for her to drink. Her hands shook, knees trembling as she stood once again, battling the onslaught of nausea as she stumbled weakly against the wood again, gripping its deeply rutted surface in an attempt to keep herself up. She had gained innumerable new scars in the short time she had been out in the open on her own, and the meagre amount of food she had actually managed to scrounge from the earth meant that whatever small amounts of fat she may have had left had been lost quickly. She was lean now, but well aware that she would be skin and bones before long. After that, simply bones.

For a short while she had attempted to navigate to a destination, always somewhere in mind, even if it had no real meaning. A goal was something she could focus on. A goal was something that could make her forget what she had done. Now though, she walked aimlessly, shambling through unfamiliar landscape, stumbling over unseen obstacles. She moved like the dead, unaware of her surroundings and perhaps that was the reason few of the creatures of the forest bothered coming near her. The emptiness in her stone heart bled out from her core, so that she seemed overall more like the rocks in the valley than living flesh. The guilt had gnawed at her mind, invaded her every thought, strangled her every chance at happiness. Her soul had fled with the lives of the people she had slaughtered.

To her left there was the rustle of undergrowth. Shadows, black as tar, flitted through the dim darkness of the forest, darting through the thick trunks of the trees. She made no effort to follow the movement, too exhausted to worry about any forthcoming dangers, instead carrying on to skirt along the rock face, slipping along a narrow ledge that crumbled a little at the edge under her foot. Chunks of stone tumbled down the steep incline, almost vertical, ricocheting off of the uneven surface with an echoing clatter. Eventually they disappeared from sight, the bottom of the valley no longer visible as the former ethereal wisps of mist became denser clouds of fog that clung to the air itself like a clot. The humid air reminded her of the escape from Mount Weather. Anya's face swum in her vision, as blurred as the real world while she swayed unsteadily, cursing as she clung tighter to her rough handholds. Solid ground was meters away, torturously close. A groan sounded from her, but for all Clarke knew it could have been her bones creaking in protest as she shuffled agonisingly closer. Her skin was raw and broken in places, her nails cracked and dirty as they clawed against the rough rock for grip. The wind picked up, buffeting her like a delicate blade of grass. Finally, and with a distinct air of relief that made her feel the most alive that she had in a long time. She fell to the ground gratefully, the deep earthy brown kissing the side of her face as she relaxed into the dirt.

Clarke rolled so that she lay on her back, to stare up at the sky, dizzyingly bright blue glaring in her vision as spots of black fought against the scorching yellow of the sun. Her lids fluttered closed as she attempted to shut out the overload of information from the suddenly alive world. Sound whirled through her head, bombarding her eardrums with chaotic abandon. Birds shrill whistling crashed together in her ears to form an atonal mush over the rush of the trees in the wind. The gentle breeze was cool and calm against her raw face, like a soothing lotion, though it quickly picked up again so that it was strong enough to shift the thin veil of dirt she lay on the give way to more stone around her. She saw nothing of the cracked surface, her eyes still closed in almost euphoric bliss, welcoming the ache of her sore muscles. What she saw behind her lids was pure darkness, a happy escape from the images of the dead that haunted her brain. The ground shifted again. Her eyes opened slowly but drifted shut again when there was no more movement. Just as they closed, she was jolted from where she lay, a now very definite crack visible on her right. The side of her farthest from the edge. The soft stone crumbled into the gap as Clarke rose slowly, creaking like the rafters of an old building. Her bones cracked as she straightened up. She looked around, noticing suddenly that the ledge had merely widened rather than her reaching solid ground. Her eyes widened as the world tipped suddenly around her. Then it spun completely, as though she was on a broken gyroscope, tumbling out of control. Rock tumbled with her as she fell, bouncing against the cliff, snapping two of her fingers as she tried to grab at the sheer rock. Stone cracked against her skull and she went limp as darkness encroached on her vision. The last thing she saw was the ground rushing towards her.

 **I know this was quite short, but a second chapter should probably find its way up pretty quickly. I don't think I'll make it clexa, since I want to try something different with this story but before any of the romance stuff is going to happen, stuff is going to go down...guess you'll have to carry on reading to find out what. Please R &R , let me know what you think!**


	2. 2: Awaken

**Chapter 2: Awaken**

Glaring light scorched her retinas, searing her eyes with intense pain that burned like fire through her nerves. The constant thrum of surrounding life deafened her. Every sense was overloaded with a gargantuan flood of information, piling up against her groggy mind with perpetual force, leaving her disorientated and hazy as she attempted to make sense of the world that had exploded into existence around her. Her previously torn clothing was now shredded and barely salvageable, great gashes in her covering giving glimpses of the clotting blood and grime that layered thickly over Clarke's skin. She tilted her head slightly, her entire body feeling like one big bruise, and found herself lying at the bottom of the valley, on a bed of boulders, coated in a blanket of dust and debris. Her head felt heavier than a bus, and even that slight movement left her feeling nauseous. Clarke lay still, hoping the effects would pass, allowing her blurred vision to steady slightly. As the cacophonous whirlwind inside her head eventually began to disperse, she rose slowly to a seated position, pins and needles prickling her muscles as blood suddenly began to rush around her body. Her left hand sported two mangled fingers, and her left shoulder was also dislocated from her attempt to stop her fall. Cuts and scrapes covered nearly her entire body, with a long gash that ripped its way down much of her torso, clotted with dirt. She felt hesitantly around her head with her right hand to find a deep laceration on the side of her skull, her hair now matted further with blood. Overall, she was a wreck. She fixed her shoulder efficiently, bringing her arm around raised at her side, and lifting it so that it slipped back into place with a grunt of pain. Though still sore, she could at least move it but everything else would require more attention. With a sigh she attempted to stand, faltering as blood spread across her tattered jacket as she accidentally split apart the gash in her midriff. A small whimper escaped her trembling lips as she stumbled, the world tilting once again. This time it wasn't the ground moving. Still, she fell.

o~O~o

When Clarke awoke again, her head was less painful but her body still stung. She attempted to rise, but that hope was in vain. She couldn't move. She was strapped down. Straining against her bonds, Clarke looked around her. No longer surrounded by the rubble of the rock fall, Clarke found herself on some sort of makeshift stretcher, covered in a thin shroud of fabric that left her shoulders and up free but effectively restrained the rest of her body.

 _Why now?_ Clarke had wandered around the forest for nearly two weeks, with no interruption from the Grounders, despite it being their territory. Yet suddenly they were holding her prisoner?

She was interrupted from any further thought on the matter by a water skin being thrust into her face.

"Drink." The voice that ordered her was rough and growling, rumbling like the muscles cars in some of the old movies Clarke and her dad used to watch.

At her lack of reaction, the skin was once again pushed closer accompanied by an impatient grunt from above, so she took a long swig from it. Swallowing with difficulty, she made a small sound of relief as the cool liquid slid down her throat. It seemed to wash away all her aches and pains, even if for a short moment, and she took another sip quickly, fearing it would be taken away. She took more time with this one, enjoying the way the water refreshed her, wetting her mouth and soothing her cracked lips that were as dry as a desert. After a while she came out of the high, realising where she was and she once more struggled against her constraints in an effort to see exactly who was holding her prisoner.

"Who are you?" Wincing at the croaky sound of her voice, Clarke stopped shifting so much and craned her neck to try and see around her.

"You are Klark kom Skai kru, sha?"

"That's not an answer." She said with a slight scowl, wrinkling her nose.

"First you must earn my answers." Her frown grew more pronounced, exasperated.

"Yes. I'm Clarke." She snapped shortly as she rolled her eyes to the heavens. "Any particular reason I'm strapped down?"

"You must earn my trust."

"This whole earning thing is getting a little boring already." This time, she wasn't even credited with an answer and she heard the man shift away from her. Taking that as a sign that their 'conversation' was over, Clarke heaved a sigh before attempting to place where they were.

Back at the ledge she had still been within sight of the forest, the dense pines clearly visible as they spread across the horizon. She remembered the thick, cloying smell of resin and needles, and the smell of dust and cold stone later on. Nothing was familiar now. Little could be seen around her, darkness having fallen long ago. Icy night air chilled her breath as it billowed in great puffs of cloud from her mouth, ghostly grey and ethereal as it clouded the stars above her. The moon was a pale and ghostly ship cresting through small wreaths of cloud that streaked the sky. A little heat came from a small fire about a meter from her, flames flickering beneath the shadow of blackened wood. Two voices spoke quietly on the other side of the fire, their figures doused in shadow while warm orange light flickered occasionally over them. One voice was guttural, the man from earlier, but the second was much clearer.

The feminine voice held a commanding authority, like she was used to being obeyed. It reminded Clarke of Lexa for a moment. Her betrayal still left her broken and angry but the wound was healing. Either way it wasn't her; this voice was colder still, like unyielding stone in a world of ice. It held no malice, but Clarke could tell there was no arguing with that voice. It was almost instinctual to fear its owner. It would have been good to know what they were talking about, but her knowledge of the Grounder language was limited and their words were muffled anyway. Her eyes heavy with exhaustion, Clarke's lids drooped uncontrollably as she struggled to remain alert. 

When Clarke woke, it was to a very different view. They had moved again and the sun was now glaring down on her so she supposed it must be around midday. They had just jolted to a stop from the way her stretcher was attached to the back of a horse and her rude awakening. It was disconnected quickly, and she bumped to the ground with a jarring thud, grunting in indignation at the rough treatment. A face hovered into view, before the new person knelt beside Clarke. The girl next to her had high, sharp cheekbones giving her a regal appearance and tanned skin. She turned from Clarke quickly, fiddling with something out of view, though it caused her to wince in pain as something grazed her slashed stomach. When she spoke, Clarke recognised the frosty tones from the night before.

"You are awake." Clarke wasn't entirely sure how to reply to the statement but she gave a weak nod, watching as the girl stood again before looking down at her. It gave Clarke time to absorb what was before her. The girl had startling electric blue eyes, chilling in the way they studied her with clinical disinterest, peering down through thick black lashes. Under her left eye was a pale scar, more apparent against her otherwise dark skin as it slashed down one cheek towards her lips. Twisted into intricate designs, the dark strands of her hair is braided tightly similarly to Lexa's; her clothes were noticeably different from most of the other Grounders that Clarke has met however, consisting largely of pale, muted tones largely white and grey. She did have the usual intimidating sword across her back, but it was complimented by a tomahawk-style axe at her waist and vicious knives sheathed at her legs.

Despite the blazing sun, the air held a biting chill in it, suddenly intensified as a breeze swept away the thin sheet that had protected her, leaving her exposed to the elements.

Which shouldn't have been possible if she were strapped into a stretcher under said sheet. She started in realisation and looked down, the straps had been undone. Quicker than she thought possible, Clarke snatched a knife from the mysterious grounder's lower leg. Clutching it tightly, her only form of defence against two grounder warriors, Clarke whirled and ran, stumbling slightly on unused legs. There was a shout behind her but she dared not look back, setting her sights on a dense outcrop of trees, jutting out from the ground. Legs burning, she burst from the open, searching for a place to hide, well aware of the shortage of time. Tucking the knife into a boot, she began to scale a tree, now adept after her time in the wild. Trees had always been safer when she couldn't manage to start a fire. Her left hand was significantly weaker thanks to two broken fingers, though these appeared to have been straightened and in all honesty the pain was probably the better option out of that and being a Grounder prisoner. Most of Clarke's wounds from the fall were healing over, and the largest cuts had been sewn shut at some point, likely during her blacked out state. Still aching, but at least not in danger of bleeding out, Clarke ascended, the rough barks of the tree scraping against her skin. She ignored the pain, instead opting to get as high as possible.

The grounders were in the outcrop seconds after Clarke pulled her leg up onto a particularly thick branch. She froze, desperate not to make a sound, knowing she was unlikely to win against the two, especially with her little training. Her breathing was ragged and stuttering, nearly uncontrollable, though she struggled to stifle the laboured gasps. As she watched, the warriors split up, the man moving off further in while the girl started to range around the outside. She was getting steadily closer, moving deliberately and quietly. Clarke was struggling to breathe without sound, desperate for air but terrified of giving herself away. She choked quietly and went rigid, eyes widening in fear and her nostrils flaring like a rabbit knowing that it's seconds from meeting its demise. She prayed silently that the grounder had not heard, but the girls head snapped up in her direction, eyes narrowing as she searched the branches. Clarke knew she had no chance of staying hidden.

Seizing the final glowing embers of a chance of surprise, Clarke sprung from the tree, blade clasped in hand as she swung it towards her pursuer. Gravity brought her down at speed, rocketing towards the girl, but she simply took a few steps back despite the slightly shocked expression growing on her face. Clarke barely registered it, her mind set on one thing. Escape. She hit the ground awkwardly, rolling to absorb the impact, but the movements were clumsy from lack of training. Still, she snapped back to her feet, bringing her knife up again so that it was held in an ice-pick grip Octavia had once described to her. Her opponent drew her sword. It was vicious and wild in its design, the blade serrated at the top of its cutting edge, curving slightly before it was brought into a hilt wrapped in mismatched leather.

Clarke faltered but then brought her knife back up, knowing that she would be unlikely to get another chance if she failed to escape this time. She didn't have long before the other warrior returned, so she didn't bother waiting to be attacked, running full pelt at the grounder. She swung wildly but was quickly blocked with barely a movement from the other girl. She backed off, thinking desperately as visions of Octavia's training sessions swarm in her mind. She grimaced, knowing that she is at a severe disadvantage. Throwing caution to the wind, Clarke raced forwards again, watching as the sword raised in anticipation of another crazed swipe. She allowed herself a brief moment of satisfaction, before baseball sliding on the damp leaves that littered the ground, slashing at the girl's legs as she passes. Hearing a sharp, pained intake of breath with grim pleasure, Clarke sprung off again, pumping her legs furiously as she heard another body crashing through the trees behind her. Then more crashing to her right. She winced, knowing she was essentially screwed but was unwilling to stop. She ran frantically away from the nearing noises behind her, until she couldn't hear anymore. Trying to catch her breath, Clarke gulped air with panicky gasps, unsure if she'd lost her captors. The feeling of cold steel at her throat told her no.

 **Well there you go, please R &R.**


	3. 3: Captors

**Chapter 3: Captors**

 **(Just btw, I'm going to change the tense from here on out because I got tired of writing in past tense.)**

By the time they had half dragged, half carried Clarke back to where the horses were tied up, light was dimming. As the sun dipped ever lower in the sky, orange blazed through the atmosphere, scorching the clouds. The grounder girl had started limping a little, though she hid it well, and her expression was darkening almost in sync with the sky.

Now she stands, scowling, as she checks on the horses they had left behind during the chase, while the other grounder watches Clarke closely. It seems they weren't going to take any more chances. Finishing with the horses, the girl, who now appears to be the superior of the two, walks over to Clarke and takes over the watch. Her expression is severe, but does not appear angry, which frankly worries Clarke more, as it shows that grounders has already formulated some sort of way to deal with her. One that wouldn't be fuelled by some blind rage, uncoordinated and messy. No, this would be thought through. She doubts she would like it.

Clarke can't sleep. A combination of adrenaline still rushing through her veins, fear that if she sleeps she wouldn't wake and the perpetual discomfort of being watched so closely she feels like the eyes will burn holes through her. She doesn't lie down, instead opting to lean back against a tree as the other girl watches intently. Clarke looks around, surveying the area as she tries to picture where they are headed. They've been traveling north steadily as far as she can tell, and the forest was essentially gone far back, which means they aren't trikru. Clarke isn't very familiar with the other clans, only able to name a few so she can't formulate an image that helps her in anyway. She turns to stare calculatingly at the grounder girl, who is still watching, pondering whether it is worth asking her. The man had been less than helpful. She can't help but notice the thin sheen of sweat that coats the grounder's brow, and the shallow breaths. Her eyes are drooping. Despite herself, Clarke's healer instincts make her worry. The wound on the girl's leg could easily be getting infected, but she appears to be doing nothing about it with typical grounder stubbornness. She rolls her eyes internally, knowing that even if she could heal the grounder, she wouldn't be allowed anywhere near her. Then she catches herself, because she shouldn't even want to heal the person who has taken her prisoner and is currently very, very annoyed at her.

Her mind works once again for a distraction, anything to take away from the emptiness of the night. She takes stock of everything she has: clothes (well, rags); a pouch of medicinal herbs in her boot; a small, blunt knife that would be hopeless in a fight. Basically nothing. With a sigh she returns to staring blankly out at the surrounding landscape, taking in the occasional tall pines, tipped with the beginnings of snow and the rocks that are strewn across the expanse of land. She sighs again and girl's head jerks up to glare venomously at her. Her eyes seem to flash in the darkness, burning through her own like they can see into her very soul. Squirming uncomfortably, Clarke attempts to avoid the intimidating orbs. "So…" Clarke has given up on trying to distract herself. "Who are you exactly?"

The girl regards her curiously at this, either at the fact Clarke doesn't even know who has taken her, or that she has the gall to ask. Frankly Clarke is beyond caring about expectations these days, as her heart gradually closes off again. She waits for a while longer, eventually coughing none too subtly to remind the brunette of her question. This sparks another flicker of irritation across the grounder's face which in return elicits a quiet smirk on Clarke's part. Still, the other girl will not allow her pride to be wounded and speaks up, tilting her head with a regal haughtiness as she watches Clarke over the glowing embers of the fire long since forgotten. Somehow she still looks powerful as the wavering light highlights the way her eyes are shadowed by dark bruises and her face paler than before.

"I am of the Ice Nation." At the words, a stab of fear plunges through Clarke's heart, images flashing through her mind. Stories of the people she was now in the possession of. Stories of Costia; of torture and interrogation; of beheadings…of death. She isn't afraid of death, but even in her depression she hadn't craved it. After struggling so hard to survive, her instincts are a little more difficult to let go.

"Did you capture me for the same reason as you did Costia?" These words bring the grounder's head back up as sharply as before, from where it had begun to loll against her chest. Her eyes are suspicious and Clarke suspects few grounders in the alliance would speak of the matter let alone it being know by one of the Sky People.

"You know of this? How?" Her eyebrows are wrinkled in confusion.

"So no, then. I was made aware of some events during my time fighting with alongside the grounders alliance." The girl grows less confused as the conversation moves along, instead her face shifting into a sneer.

"Yet they left you by the mountain. It seems you ran when you realised you had no chance of success. Perhaps your people truly are cowards." She snorts.

At this Clarke laughs, barking and harsh, brazen against the subtle whispers of the night. Memories she has ignored flood back in, but they are tainted with more anger now. She's surprised to even feel indignant at the girl's accusation. Urged to correct her, to put her in her place, Clarke spits her answer with a sense of righteous fury, her expression fierce and harsh though she doesn't notice it.

"You think we ran?" She feels cold satisfaction at the apparent shock on the grounder's face. She doesn't think to question the pride she feels now at her victory rather than the hollowness that had invaded her then. No, she continues with a feral sort of smile that seems more like she's baring her teeth. She looks her captor in the eye and thinks of Lexa. Of betrayal and fury. "We did not run. Perhaps your people ran like cowards. I do not fall so easily under sweet promises and the lure of betrayal. My people rose. I saved them all. As I had to do, as was my duty. I destroyed the mountain. Man, woman and child."

Once it hurt to even think of what she'd done. Now she is pleased as the shock turns to something like fear, then awe. Then approval. Before she can register it, the expression flicks back to default, now with added derision. " _You_ destroyed the mountain."

Clarke's smile is dangerous, it seems like a threat, her eyes glinting with malice, some devilish glee in them that she is about to prove herself more formidable than they believe her. "They attacked my people. They attacked me. Jus drein jus daun, no? I killed every single one of them. Painfully."

She can still remember their dying screams that sank into gurgle and gasps. None of the noise lasted long, they died quickly. But the way their bodies were contorted as she stepped over them, the rawness of their corpses. The way those screams pierce her mind nearly every time she sleeps. She know all of them suffered, even the innocents. Clarke blinks out of her distractedness in time to catch that small hint of approval in those electric blue eyes once again, but is jolted away by the fearful exclamation behind her. She had forgotten about the bearded man, but now she simply ignores him and continues in the hushed silence. "I thought you'd have known, or are Lexa's scouts not quite as effective now?"

This at least prompts an answer from the girl. "We left to return to our people. Though the decision was made in the interests of her people, and we regained some of our warriors, we cannot trust a Heda who will turn her back on allies at the promises of our enemies. That is the reason we require you. For information on the missile attack. To see if we should be members of this alliance for much longer. We have doubts."

At this Clarke snorts. For a second she thinks about the people she has left behind, how what she is being asked could affect them. How she might bring about another war. Then she remembers Lexa. Remembers Jasper as he looks at her with rage and bitterness. Remembers the eyes of those she had sacrificed her humanity to save; how they had looked at her with gratitude on their faces but fear and distrust in their eyes. So she speaks. "Then you should have just asked. We knew."

The man behind her is up and shouting in a guttural tongue, lunging at her as he reaches for the sword at his waist. The girl hisses at him to stop, tone commanding, but he continues angrily. Clarke has her blunt knife at his throat in a flash and he stops. She may be unlikely to cut him with it, but he is equally as unlikely to know that unless she tries. She holds it there as his eyes glance down at the hand that holds power over his life. Clarke manoeuvres herself so that she still has control but can see the girl. She cocks an eyebrow, signalling for the brunette to speak.

"I'd appreciate it if you could release him." Clarke's eyebrow rockets back up in a second. "Okay, maybe not. I do however require more details on the events other than 'we knew'".

Clarke nods her assent and speaks of her rush to tell Lexa. Of the decision that had been made. She feels a little glee to have revenge against Lexa in this way. It could result in her own death, but that was likely from the start of her capture anyway. Her heart is bitter enough to want to cause this pain even in her last dying breath. By the time she's finished, her arm is tired and she just puts her knife away again, uncaring. Reaching for his sword again, the man goes to strike her, but is stopped. He moves back to the corner of the camp again muttering.

"So can I go now? Or can you just kill me…because now that I've just answered your question there doesn't appear to be much use for me." Clarkes tone is flippant but she is a little on edge with the situation. She has an unstable grounder at her back that she has held at knife point, and one in front of her whom she wounded and is also now looking at her with a decidedly disturbing gleam in her eyes. Her mouth twists in a small smirk.

"Oh I'm sure we'll find something."

Anywhere else that could be seductive or intriguing, but this doesn't make her body flush with heat and her heart falter. This makes her body shiver with a chill, needles of fear prickling her skin as her heart all but stops.


	4. 4: Blood Sport Part 1

**Chapter 4: Bloodsport**

White. The entire world around her is white, smudged with dirty smears of grey across the expanse of ice and snow. It smothers the ground thickly, filling Clarke's vision. Clarke has been given a jacket, thick and warm, but now it's all the protection she has against the elements except for her sturdy military boots. Harsh, icy winds blistered through, burning her skin. Her face and legs are almost bare, the fur reaching halfway down her thighs. It's still more than she expected, leaving her to wonder why they're making an effort for her to survive.

All the monotonous walking as she stumbles along leaves her more time to think than she cares for. Clarke has heard barely a word from her captors since her questioning, but for a few murmurs between the two when they left the horses once reaching the denser snow. Her mind has been torn from the haze she had sunken into, now alight with explosions of thought whirling around in her head. She brushes those thoughts to the side when the horses stop.

The sight before her steals away her breath, erasing her occupation with her situation and bringing forward her old artistic romanticism even for a moment. A frozen lake, glittering like thousands of aquamarine jewels under the white glare of the sun and snow, is spread out before the group, vast and beautiful. Around the edge, small outcrops of pines are dotted sparsely, a denser group visible as it rears up from a small island further into the lake. She stands looking down at it from the ridge upon which they stand, peering down with a look of awe. She hears yelps and barks to the right, sharp in the silence of the vast emptiness, causing her to squint towards one of the larger outcrops. Upon closer inspection, she realises it's shielding a village, squat buildings sprawling across the snow. The structures are largely wooden, reminding her of the grounder villages she has seen before. It's large in comparison to many she's seen and the only reason she hadn't noticed it earlier was because it's well concealed in the snow and trees. It stretches all the way to the shore and she can see small boats like matchsticks pulled up against some sort of dock. She can spy the dogs, lolloping through the area amongst the quiet bustle of people.

Before any more can be taken in she's shoved in the back and moves on exasperatedly, though she knows she's likely to see the village up close shortly. Everything around her is new and it feels like she has landed on the ground again, slightly surreal. They skid down a slope of powdery snow, Clarke following the girls lead as the man takes up the rear. The snow gets a little thinner as they approach the lake, but it's still a struggle to walk until they're close to the village. Right at the entrance to the quiet hubbub of the village, Clarke begins to tense up as she realises she has no idea what is going to happen to her. The village is much larger up close, a few buildings standing out starkly against the other homes. Despite this, it appears to be built around a central communal point, where some sort of market is currently placed. The buildings expand out from there, all varying in style and size, cobbled together to form a community. Clarke doesn't linger too long to admire this, stumbling through the streets as she's led by her captors. She hasn't been tied again, but Clarke knows that's simply because there's no need. Not only does she have zero chance of finding a way out of here, she has zero chance of surviving if she were to and her blunt knife would be entirely ineffective against a whole host of more skilled adversaries. She won't resign herself to death just yet, but her future is currently looking bleak. Very bleak.

Ceasing almost as soon as the group enters the village, the background hum of the crowds is replaced with an eerie silence. The quiet whisper of the wind slipping between the buildings is suddenly a roar in her ears, but Clarke is sure that the erratic stutters of her heartbeat a drowning it out. She can hear her blood rushing through her veins as her steps falter a little. She jolts to a stop behind the grounder girl, right in the nexus of the village she had noticed moments earlier. She can feel all eyes on her and her first instinct is to look away, to run. Clarke feels like she's dealing with wild animals, despite their intelligence. A lethal blend of intellect and instinct. It's enough to make her want to break down- give in and die. She won't though. Clarke isn't a weak, naïve girl anymore. It's this thought that drives her to look up, her accumulated anger and frustration combined with her pride to make her look up sharply. Fierce and unyielding, Clarke looks around her, looking some in the eyes with defiance. Lexa taught her this. That even in the face of danger, weakness is not an option. The group seems unnerved that she faces them with her head raised, which causes Clarke to smirk inwardly as some of them shuffle uncomfortably, though the girl questioned her seems equally as amused at her peoples antics. Clarke squares her shoulders in the tense silence. No-one speaks. Instead the blanket of sound (or lack thereof) lies heavy over them. It makes Clarke short of breath, adrenaline tingling through her veins as though this statuesque scene is just about to explode. It leaves her mind whirling with uncontrollable chaos, unable to predict what is going to happen.

The grounder girl, on the other hand, appears entirely unaffected by the obvious unease rife in the air and steps forward, back straight and eyes surveying everyone, haughty and proud. A voice speaks up from the back, which causes her to glance sharply in the direction of the noise, but she otherwise maintains her composure. "Chon ste em?" _(Who is she?)_

"Em ste Klark kom Skaikru." Her tone is authoritative and as far as Clarke can tell, she is in control of the entire village. Her words elicit and wave of murmurs through the gathered crowd, which reasserts Clarke's nervousness. "Shof op!" Clarke is struggling but can just about understand the words being said thanks to her time around the grounders during the war against the mountain. " Em laik heda kom Skaikru en em ste ain. _Osir_ don Maunripa." ( _She is the commander of the sky people and she is mine. We have the mountain killer)_

"Maunripa?" This promotes a fresh wave of muttering amongst the throng, louder than the last from the combined shock that the mountain has fallen and that it was the Sky People who destroyed it, separate from the alliance. Once again, out of the web of noise, one picks up, voice dripping with derisive disbelief. "Em ste kwelen, emo laik kom skai! Emo nou bilaik gonakru." _(She is weak, they are from the sky! They are not warriors.)_

Clarke sees irritation flicker brieflsy across the controlled mask of her captor, a small break in her mask before it is seamlessly covered up and she opens her mouth to speak, her voice as emotionless as her face. "Em na gon op."

This causes the crowd to break out in sound once again, but Clarke has lost track of the short speech, unable to recognise the final statement that sounded more like a sentence. Before she knows what's happening she is being whisked away from the crowd, losing sight of the two grounders who brought her here. Three warriors push her down streets now empty as the crowd remains, shouting questions in a confused cacophony. Clarke stumbles, physically and emotionally drained from the hectic progression of the day. She refuses to fall however and after a while stops at the largest building she has ever seen in a grounder village. Its wooden façade is foreboding, the worn wood eerie, every crack casting deep shadow that alludes to something even darker. The walls reach high, almost to the tops of the trees nearby, curving round to form an ovular shape. Clinging close to it, the houses are dwarfed by its gargantuan proportions. There are a series of archways set in to the sides of the structure, a few locked with roughly formed bars criss-crossing the entryways. Shoving her roughly forwards again, irritated at her pause, the guards lead her towards one of the locked gates; one guards swinging it open with the piercing shriek of corroded metal hinges.

Inside, the air is stale, clogging in Clarke's lungs, laden with dust and the faint metallic tang of blood and rust. Still, her breaths chill her throat and her face remains numb from the unerring cold. It's only slightly warmer down in the dark passageway that she follows into the unknown, than outside. Muffled taps, her footfalls settle upon layers of old dust and dirt, that build upon a floor compiled from rough stone and wood. It's a welcome change from ice and snow, but only tells Clarke that whatever is to come is unlikely to be pleasant. Then again, when is it ever? As she walks, Clarke's bare shoulder brushes against the slimy, cold walls and she shifts her inadequate clothing awkwardly in an ineffectual attempt to gain more covering, the oversized jacket only slipping again.

Ahead, a dim light begins to brighten as the group makes its way forward; what begins as a faintly yellow tinge growing into the incandescent orange of flickering flames. Clarke enters a hall, its walls lined with blazing torches…and cells. From within the dingy shadows cast by the flames, and behind iron bars, Clarke can just make out wraith-like forms curled up in the darkness, faint muttering drifting through the air occasionally. Aside from that, there is little sign of life in the ominous room. Wooden tables and benches stretch across the centre of the hall, while one is offset to the side. At the far end of the room is another gate, also barred but much larger than the one through which they entered the building. It stretches up almost the ceiling, a smaller door concealed artfully into the thick planks from which it is made up of. Through the gaps, faint glimmers of light on metal gleam through the darkness, but before she can even attempt to see what lies beyond, Clarke is guided away to one of the cells in the corner of the room, where the shadows lie the thickest.

With a resounding click echoing with the finality of a gunshot, the door to the cell is locked, leaving Clarke lying on cold, hard ground in the darkness. As she watches the emptiness of the ceiling, indistinguishable from the air itself in the dark, images flit by her eyes, memories. Death, suffering, desperation, hope, all pass by in flashes so fast they can barely be registered until, in the final seconds of consciousness, her mind settles on one constant in her life. Even as she feels herself succumbing to the seduction of sleep the thought blazes, a bright and fierce beacon in her mind in the encroaching darkness. Survival.

o~O~o

Clang. Clang. Clang. Metal on metal, crashing together with piercing tones that abrade her ears. The din awakens Clarke with a start, sitting upright with a swift, jerking suddenness, catching the retreating form of the guard as he bangs his weapon against the bars of the cages, unlocking them as he goes. Clarke rises hesitantly, pushing gingerly at the cell door so that it swings slowly open.

She steps out into the hallway again to meet a shuffling crowd of people forming queues to isolated tables, heavily laden with deep cauldrons of an unidentifiable slop. Steam billows, roiling over the iron rim in pale clouds, hot in the chilled and empty air. Instinctively, Clarke joins the closest line, trudging forwards with the rest of them, until eventually a wooden bowl is thrust into her hands and she's shouldered aside by the person behind her. Clarke retreats to a table to eat her food, scrabbling through it with ravenous hunger. The other prisoners avoid her like the plague, skirting around her table, sitting in closely clustered groups far from her position. She's isolated, but at least she's being left alone.

When guards enter from the back of the hall, the noise dims down to a muted murmur, all eyes down. The guards approach Clarke's table, motioning to her to get up and follow. As she's lead through the rows of tables, past dozens of lean prisoners, Clarke takes in their expressions: most are hostile, but some faces are tinted with a little apprehension or even sympathy. It's those few which send a chill through her heart as she looks away, and wonders where she is being taken to.

The walk is short, but it feels like hours. It feels like she's being led to the noose. Clarke raises her head a little as she takes in the vast expanse of the huge door she first saw when she entered the hall yesterday. One guard opens the smaller inset door, and she is led through into a stone room. The air here is musty, and it feels like some sort of bunker. It's somewhat militaristic but clearly aged. What really grabs her attention however, is the weaponry that lines the walls. Metal gleaming viciously from the stone walls, and racks, glinting malevolently. Her heartrate spiked, but outwardly she attempts to reign in her emotions, twisting and shaping them into a taut mask of indifference.

A towering mountain of a man looms up in front of them, loping forward with great strides, his heavily scarred, bare arms swinging loosely by his sides. His vest is rough, worn furs stitched with thick threads of leather, his trousers loose- swishing loudly in the otherwise silent room. Upon reaching the group, he stands almost twice as tall as Clarke and she can't help the light tremor of fear that runs through her.

"Sky Princess." His voice is low and gravelly as he greets her, baring his tombstone teeth in a gruesome impression of a welcoming smile. The grimace fades quickly away to a more genuine smirk as he continues. It slips into his voice, a sickening smugness that fills Clarke with both apprehension and resolve. "Welcome to the first training ground."


	5. 5: Blood Sport Part 2

**Chapter 5: Blood sport Part II**

Her hair is matted with sweat and dirt and dust. Hours' worth of it have accumulated on her so thickly that it is as though she has grown several new layers of skin over her own. Where it was once pale and smooth, Clarke's skin is dirty and rough, scarred and dark. How long has she been fighting?

Clarke raises her arm weakly before her. The training sword she holds is battered mercilessly. The onslaught doesn't stop when her arm buckles.

It doesn't stop when her wooden weapon falls to the ground, settling amongst the dust and gore that coats the ring.

It doesn't stop when her own blood splatters over the old: vivid crimson against the greys and browns. It gleams in the low light. She can't remember who she is.

It doesn't stop as she cries out in fear and pain. Confusion overwhelms her mind, weak with hunger and exhaustion and pain. Why is she here?

Her opponent's sword rains down blows, beating a thunderous tattoo upon her body, painting it in black, blue and red. Each swing blurs into the next. Each swing grows more unfocused than the last. She needs them to stop.

It doesn't stop when her voice grows hoarse, her raw screams dying in her throat to be replaced by blood. Her hacking cough falters under the rise and fall of the sword. Each strike is a brand of her weakness. Every swish of the blade, a disgusted sneer. Every inch of her skin is a livid bruise, her entire body alive with pain. Her bones tremble, like the creaking hull of a ship in a storm, battered by wind and waves. There is no relief. The sword continues to fall.

It doesn't stop. It. Doesn't. Stop. Why? Why doesn't it stop? Stop. She has to make it. Stop. Or it won't. Stop. STOP. _STOP. "STOP!"_

Her sword slams up in an angry blur, her rage a blade that slices apart the air, throwing back her oppressor. Her scream echoes from the ceiling. She listens to none of it but hears all of it. Her focus is upon her sword, cutting through the air as she charges forwards. Everything is red.

Her clothes- more dirt than fabric- are wet and sticky. Red. Blood drips from a cut on her brow, trickling down her face, metallic on her lips. Red. It drips to the floor. Pat…pat…pat. Each drop is the beat of a war drum, slow…so slow. As though time itself has slowed in this moment, the world stopping around her. Red upon the floor. Red on her sword. Red in her vision. Everything is red. Everything is war. It is pain. Loss. Survival. Blood. Hers. Theirs.

 _Jus drein jus daun_.

Time starts. Everything is fast as though time has to catch up. She hits like a hurricane, whirling around, each strike fuelled by rage. The force of each blow sends tremors up her arms that she doesn't notice. She is hit twice, once in the face. She carries on. Clarke isn't here at this moment. Just the animal inside. The one that has to _survive._ Instinct gives a little, a tiny sliver of rationality that blends seamlessly with it. The combination gives an icy clarity. Each move playing out before her.

The animal whirls in a full circle, her blade whipping round in vicious ark at the man's head. His own sword blocks it easily, but she uses the momentum to throw herself bodily at him, knocking him off balance. She kicks his knees. His legs buckle and he's on the floor. Her blade is raised again. It slices at his neck. It splits the wind.

It's about to split his neck too when it is jarred to a sudden halt. THWACK. His sword stops hers again and he is laughing. "Good. Very good!"

The animal can't remember how she got here. How long she's been standing there, breathing heavy and laboured. Her arms tremble as her weapon strains against his. He is happy. Her confusion snaps her out of the haze and before anything can become clearer she is collapsing to the ground. Adrenaline pulses through her veins, her body feels too light.

"You may not be strong. Or a warrior. But you have the spirit of many." His grin seems out of place, his face stretched into a leering expression of happiness. His pleasure brings her no joy. She barely registers it. Her blood is cooling. The red is fading now, though it covers everything around her. Black creeps in on it but she doesn't give in.

The animal's own smile grows to match his, baring her teeth in a feral parody of satisfaction. She can't say why.

* * *

Firelight seared her eyes upon her return to the main hall, the flickering orange burning through the blurred haze of Clarke's mind. She couldn't remember how long it had been since she was last in the room, time had become somewhat of an empty concept. Everything was training or eating or sleeping. She could vaguely recall more intense sessions like the last, some more focused on improving technique, some simply battles of will and stamina as she fought to stay alive. Her body was a constant ache, a brief relief in the early morning as she woke quickly replaced.

She could have been here days, weeks, even months but she couldn't say. Clarke's palms were rough and blister from hours of swinging swords, her muscles toned and skin pale and scarred beneath the dirt. She had hacked her matted hair shorter so that it reached down to her chin, since it just got in the way.

Slumping to the roughly hewn wooden bench, Clarke dropped her bowl to the table, scooping slop hurriedly into her mouth. She'd barely swallowed the first mouthful when a bowl slammed down to next to hers, the lumpy meal spilling slightly. A man sat beside her heavily. Then another on the other side of the table. Clarke paused with her food halfway to her mouth, glancing up at the people surrounding her. After a beat, she brought it the rest of the way and chewed slowly on it whilst coolly appraising her surroundings.

"Sky princess." The speaker had a tattoo scrawled across his face, three rings in his eyebrow. He spits the words with a mixture of disgust and derision.

"Yes?" Her voice is rough from lack of use, low and cracked, but she forces out the word just the same.

His face lifts in a sneer. "You spared the murderer of my cousin."

This intrigues her, this statement. It brings memories that have long faded, flashes of a boy's face. A boy's blood. Her lips quirk at the glimpse of a past that is no longer hers. The unintentional move provokes a less positive reaction. His fist drives into the table with an echoing smack. The hall stops. Clarke sets down her spoon and stands as both men rise from their seats.

"Someone will settle the debt." He hisses with a tongue cutting like a razor. His fist swings like a rock into the side of her head, leaving it ringing. She feels wetness, blood from her ear. A second punch is thrown, then a third. Clarke can't remember how to react. His friend grabs her by the shoulders and throws her to the floor, while he kicks out. The boot hefts into her back, making her cry out. The boots continue to fall. Swinging like pendulums. One…Two…Three…Four…

The animal comes easier this time. It's angry.

Ripping out of her mouth, the yowl that pierces the air is not human. She rolls quickly under the next leg that swings, striking the back of his other knee with her forearm so that he pitches forwards. As she comes to her feet facing away from him and kicks back. The heel of her boot slams into the base of his skull. An elbow slams into her side with enough force to throw her sideways. With a snarl she whirls on the attacker, pouncing on him and wrapping her legs around his sides while gripping his shoulders. His face registers panic for a second before she slams her head twice into his face, crushing his nose. He falls in shock, crumpling to his back. The animal chops the side of her hand into his throat as she's pulled off of the prone body by her shoulders.

Twisting in the first man's grip, she twirls his arm behind his back, yanking it up quickly before he has chance to fight the momentum of her moved. He yelps as the sharp pain hits but she has continued moving, flipping round his arm so that her face is inches from his, baring her teeth. She's still light however; he manages to lift her bodily up, loosening her grip. He throws her to the ground. Lightheaded, she loses focus, unable to stand. The man pins her to the floor, his rancid breath hot upon her face. Unable to breath under his weight, she chokes, eyes searching wildly around for anything that might provide escape. Survival. She settles on his face, his grimly ecstatic eyes, set and angry with a wild joy behind them. With a last desperate lunge as spots swim in her vision, she sinks her teeth into his ear, yanking viciously back and ripping his ear out and spitting it to the side. He reels back, blood pouring from the side of his head just as it drips from her teeth. Her knee sinks deep into his groin and he falls. This time he stays down.

Clarke is standing there over the body of two men. Blood drips from her mouth, matting the hair more thickly, streaked with red on the side of her head. The animal stands there with her looking down with grim satisfaction.

 _'What have I done?' Clarke looks down aghast, before glancing at the animal._

 _'Survived,' she replies, 'we've survived.' Clarke and the animal smile. They laugh wildly as the guards are dragging them back to their cell._

 _'_ _We will always survive.'_

 **A/N So I'm not entirely sure about the way this is going, but I'm kind of liking it, and hopefully you do too. Please review, feel free to send me any thoughts.**


	6. 6: Battered and Bloody

**Chapter 6: Battered and Bloody**

 **So, sorry for the huge gap before posting this, I've been in a bit of a rut but I'm hoping to be able to work on writing more. Anyway, no use in excuses, hope you enjoy the chapter!**

 ** _A/N Grounder language is in italics._**

This is the sixth night Clarke has spent on her own, in her cell since the incident. Outside, the other prisoners move around in the monotonous rotor that is now their lives. She has noticed that groups of them are systematically sent off, returning weary and exhausted. She assumes it's for training similar to hers, but they whimper often from the pain in their hands, despite the seemingly shorter sessions, so she regards them with derision. They are not strong enough to survive. The animal laughs at them, at their weakness, and Clarke has found a smirk growing unwillingly on her face on more than one occasion as they pass her cage.

Despite her solitary confinement, Clarke has refused to be humbled. She paces her cage like a wild animal, and despite her battered appearance and her weakness from lower rations, few have dared to approach her cell. The animal insists that they not grow unwary and feeble. Her grunts of exertion are a nearly perpetual noise in the quiet of the hall for hours on end each day. When she isn't pacing or exercising, Clarke sits stock still on the slab she sleeps on, alert, listening to everything on the outside. She has trained herself to recognise the differences between each noise: whether someone is limping or tired; whether they wear heavy armour like the guards; are male or female. The animal is pleased, she can train and evolve even when they have tried to keep her down.

This night seems to be special however. The Trainer approaches her cell flanked by four guards and produces a key from his pocket. His tombstone teeth glare garishly bright as they reflect the dim firelight. The light that struggles into her cage seems only to pick out Clarke's eyes, wreathed in shadow as she is, until she looms up to the bars, a smile adorning her lips despite the hint of distrust buried in her eyes.

"Klark." A voice sounds from behind the trainer and he moves to the side, his face quickly losing all expression and he stands rigid and controlled. The cold tone peaks her interest. Standing before the cell, dressed as though she is heading for war, is the Girl. Her scar catches the light and combined with her uncompromising expression she looks deadly.

Clarke tilts her head slightly at the appearance of her captor after such a long time – she doesn't know quite how long; time seems to be less of a concern down here, where nothing changes but the flickering torchlight in the darkness and the meal call. "I'm afraid I don't know your name."

This is the first moment in a long time that real words have ventured from between Clarke's cracked lips – her voice is scratchy and hoarse, it sounds like gravel and the grinding of stone. An odd expression flits across the Girl's face, unreadable, before she speaks again. "I am Neva of the Ice Nation. _Azgedakwin._ "

The animal in Clarke's head laughs delightedly at the information, but only a small smile escapes, followed by an exaggerated bow, hands twirled and back stooping in a parodic show of respect. " _An honour, Kwin."_

An arched eyebrow is her only response, before the lean figure steps back into the shadows, her form wraith-like. Her voice drifts out. "Today you shall be tested, Klark kom Skaikru. Today is the first trial."

Clarke is still standing in a confused stupor as the guards swing open the door and drag her through the hall to a small corridor. The smell of iron permeates the air, and ghoulish screams drift down. The screams are followed by cheers.

Ahead of her, cold light burns a rectangle into the dark and she stumbles towards it, urged forward by the guards. As she reaches the bars of the gate before her, the blazing white outside scorched her eyes, spots of black dancing in her vision. Something is forced into her hand, the cold biting into her palm numbingly, though she can't concentrate on it as a sudden blur of information overwhelms her senses as she's forced through the exit of the tunnel and into the open. Sound bombards her eardrums, the cold rush of air swirling through her body so that it deadened the feeling in her limbs.

With the eventual adjustment of her eyes, the vision that greets Clarke leaves her wishing she'd remained unseeing. A body is being dragged away from the centre of an icy arena, leaving a vivid red slashing its angry way across the fresh snow. An onslaught of cheering batters the broken corpse. With trembling hands, Clarke looks down to see the sword clutched in her grip, staring dazedly at the gleaming steel. A warrior straps a leather greave over her left forearm, the firm armour her only protection aside from the worn furs she is wearing, thin and patchy. She shivers in the cold, bumps rippling over her skin. The gate screeches as it is pushed back into place. She stumbles a little as she makes her way forward – the only way to go.

She tenses at the sheer number of people surrounding her, though her focus is quickly shifted onto the hulking, ursine figure before her. A metal mask conceals their face with a barren wasteland of blank steel, cut only by a cross the gives breathing room and eye slots. Thick black furs cover their body in swathes, while an axe is clasped in his grip. A heavy sword is buckled across their back. Blood mattes the fur and dulls his blade. As he turns his gaze upon her, his body heaves with a laugh.

Blind fear consumes her world, terror blanketing all her other thoughts with a strangling white-out of her mind. She can't breathe. Instead, Clarke s left standing in the snow with weak knees and a seizing throat as her sword trembles at her side. Instead, she is left staring death in the face, at its passive mask, and the browning blood that splatters it. She is frozen like a sparrow seconds before a hawk snatches it from the branch.

The first strike slams into her face, the padded shaft of his axe cracking across her jaw and sending a fine crimson mist into the cold air. The ruby red is startling as it dusts the crystalline flakes of snow coating the ground. Distant, the cheers of the crowd at the sight of Clarke's blood are dull through the incessant ringing in her ears, the world tilting and her breath resonating, hot and heavy, in her skull. She shakes her head slightly, her vision tinged with black, stumbling backwards as the thud of her heart pounds through the base of her skull. As the world begins to shakily return, Clarke swings at the blurred form before her with an uncontrolled, diagonal slash. The blade swishes through empty air. All her mind seems to register is the fear, leaving her unable to think. Unable to focus. Unable to recognise the axe that hefts through the air. Just before it cleaves her chest, Clarke falls back desperately, her mind just managing to pick up on the arc of the blade. Still, it catches her arm, the force of blow sending her spinning into the dirtied snow, face down, her face wet and numb. She doesn't get up and the throngs of people surrounding the pair is in uproar, jeers echoing around her. Nothing registers. His boot hefts her a few feet from the place she fell, The Bear standing next to her sword in red snow.

Clarke's figure lies prone in the pure white, blood from her arm spreading slowly like bleeding inks.

As she sits, the crowd dwindles into a hushed silence.

They watch as her body smoothly rises with such unnatural grace it as though she is a marionette manipulated by some master puppeteer. She stands in the snow, swaying slightly, devoid of weaponry. Her eyelids flutter shut for a second, snow clinging to her lashes and her dirty blonde hair. When her gaze rises to meet the self-assured expression of her opponent, her eyes are blank, the blue-grey a darkening mirror, as she stares out at him. Everything is muffled, the soft hush of the wind whistling quietly through the snow. The blankness of her face is as expressionless as his mask, cold like it is carved from stone. Till her grim features morph into a snarl, she could have been a statue, the perfect emptiness of a body without a soul. The silence is broken by her sound, the grimacing lips triggering a sudden influx of noise as they see the sky girl charge a man twice her size empty handed.

Worn boots slipping on the icy snow, her approach is messy but fast, the distance between the competitors quickly closed. The axe comes swinging at her head, but already she has hit the ground, baseball sliding like in the old videos she used to watch with her dad. She's gone between his legs, grabbing the sword on the way and slicing across his calves before he can move, his body beginning to crumple even as his upper torso is still swinging around taking the axe in a wide arc. The wounds are shallow and he quickly catches himself, grunting as he shifts his weight slightly. The pair face off again, with shoulders heaving as they exhale in billowing clouds in the cold arena. Blood clings stickily to Clarke's upper arm, working its way down towards her elbow as the grips her sword, aiming it at the mountainous man. The point is directed at his throat.

There is a short moment in which both fighters give pause, watching each other with new appraisal, silently judging the other's next moves, each shuffling slightly. Their eyes are locked, calculating. Clarke lunges forward, the sharp point of the sword leaping towards the throat of her opponent. He strikes her across the face with a broad arm, knocking her down, but already she is spinning into the blow and cutting across the back of his legs. His stumble ends with her behind him, sword at his back. Without a thought, flips the sword in her grip and brings it down with both hands in a vicious blow, sinking deep into his back, severing his spine.

The body sinks to the floor, red blossoming around the black furs, spreading across the contrasting white. The sword remains buried in his back.

Through the hushed silence, a strong voice echoes out. " _Victor."_ The word sends a small wave of confusion through Clarke, before she shakes herself out of the haze, registering the black heap by her feet, watching as Neva, the Ice Queen, rises from the huge ranks of warriors and villagers. No member of the crowd speaks, until their leader once again opens her mouth, her voice confidently spreading through the throngs of people. " _The Trial of Strength has been passed."_

The voices of the Azgeda are one as they spread in muffled whisper, the wind blowing through their ranks. The world is still numb to Clarke, her body almost unresponsive as her mind struggles to comprehend recent events. Neva's words promise more trouble. Her fingers tremble. There is nothing Clarke can do as she is led back to her cell. The world spins as she enters her the darkness of the Cage. She fades out of the dark; the animal is already making plans.


	7. 7: Blood Debt

**Chapter 7: Blood Debt**

 **A/N So it's been a pretty long time since I last updated this story, huh. I've really been wanting to get back into it and a special thanks to Romanticist Lele, your review really encouraged me to get stuck into this chapter. I'm planning to get more regular with my writing so hopefully there won't be such big breaks between the chapters in this story in the future. For now, I know this one is pretty short, but hopefully it'll keep you ticking over. I hope you enjoy it, and I'll try to get on with the next one. Thanks!**

Haunting screams echo through the winding catacombs under the arena, the shrieking pummelling against the walls and barrelling through the dry, dead air. The sharp aroma of burning flesh scorches the air as Clarke's flesh bubbles under the white-hot brand. Two Azgeda warriors pin her to a table, the back of her ragged shirt ripped open to reveal the pale skin of her back. The bumps of her spine ripple and contort as she arches against the metal. As it grows closer for the fourteenth mark, the light hair on her back singes, withering away from the flame before cold overtakes her nerves as it makes contact. Even has her flesh is burnt to create a perfect circle to join the rows that now spread like wings from her shoulder blades, all she can feel is cold, spreading from the surface, through her nerves to her very core. The pain hits quickly though, breaks not allowing her body to retreat into numbness, but there are more marks to come. She concentrates her mind as the metal descends again.

 _I am Klark kom Skaikru. This is the Trial of Focus. I am strong. I will not scream. I will not lose. This is the Trial of Focus. I am Kl –_

The fifteenth mark is made, marking the midway point. Circles curve from the prominent blades of her shoulders, lean flesh scarred in neat rows of three down either side of her spine growing closer together as they progress towards her waist.

 _I am –_ She pants heavily, sucking in oxygen to combat her wooziness. Sweat beads on her forehead in the heat of the crackling fire as the brand is returned to its solar depths. She glares at it in the darkness.

 _Focus._

It reminds her of her days on the station – of her weakness as she watched its power from her cell while she drew and dreamed of the ground.

 _I am Klark. This is the Trial of Focus. I am strong and they will pay. I am become death. I am a killer. I am tired._

She has only counted twenty-four brands by the time they stop. The sudden long and pregnant pause is agonising and she almost misses the rigidity of the burns. Cold. Pain. Air. Focus. Cold. Pain… Yet now it has stopped. She strains against the hands that hold her down only to find that they are no longer there, the ghostly pressures of thick, chorded arms still somehow tangible against her skin. The brand is discarded on the floor. Cautiously, but hustling to move before they can come back, Clarke swings her legs off of the slab, unsure whether this is a dream. She takes the poker from the flame pit, flaking and blackened but better than her fists. With quick steps muffled by dust, she hurries through the corridors, completely lost. She hears fighting.

 _Well, there's nowhere else to go._ With an unobserved shrug, she picks her way towards the clamour and clash of blades and death.

The breeze that slaps Clarke when emerges from the sprawling mass of the arena into the ice plains at the border of the city stings her back and her eyes water. Squinting against the white sun, and the glare that surrounds her, Clarke acclimatises herself. Bodies lie half covered in the snow that rolls across the frozen land, while warriors continue to fight, the grey wolf furs of the Azgeda crashing against the darker clothing of the attackers. Numb from the cold, Clarke slides down the banks of snow to the flatter ground of the battleground.

Slipping unnoticed through the fighting, she fights to discern the dark figures but she knows little of anything in this wasted world. A hint of the animal has crept into her consciousness, but her mind grows harder to separate with each fight. As a man lunges at her from the swirling snow, her animal blazes; her left arm raises to block the approaching swing before she stabs the poker deep into his chest. Clarke's nostrils flare as she gazes into his eyes, watching them go dim. His sword is in her hand as he sags to the ground and she moves forward, shifting her grip on the unfamiliar weapon, the curving sabre uncomfortable in her hands. Keeping low, her advance is slow but unnoticeable, her pale skin and hair fading away with her bleached clothing.

A large fight is ahead of her, Neva, resplendent in stark white clothing that swirls, becoming spattered quickly in vermillion with each powerful slash of her blade. As the is approached on all sides, she watches her opponents carefully, measuredly. Her red sash flutters as the wind picks up. Clarke crouches lower, unsure of her next move. Lost as she is, she doesn't know how to get Nowhere. A gash has opened up on Neva's arm, the Ice Queen gasping at the pain before she returns with a slash at her attacker's stomach. She's quickly running out of options, support nowhere in sight but only two warriors remain. They shift uneasily but are well aware of how quickly she is weakening. The first one to move buries his blade in her shoulder even as her own slides easily between his ribs. Neva drops to one knee, her blood dripping blackly onto the snow. The second warrior circles around behind her, lining his sword up to her neck. He draws it back and his guts spill onto the ground between him and the queen of the Ice Nation. Clarke's sabre finishes its swing, blood tracking its path in the sky until she brings it to her side. She stands silently watching the Ice Queen, Neva, vulnerable and helpless at her feet. Those electric blue eyes flicker up to look at her, the scar under her eye vivid red in the biting cold. Her chin is tipped up defiantly as she waits for her end. Clarke stops. The Animal stops. They are one and the same as they watch their new life's breath cloud in the air, sword still grating into the bone of their shoulder. Blood debt. Power. Clarke knows in that moment, that a new chapter has begun.


End file.
